I sat. Because what else does one do when summoned by the duchess who raised you like a bonsai tree?
Silence.
Birds.
Water.
Time.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
She didn't speak. She didn't look. She just existed— poised and unreadable and terrifying in that soft, fragrant way only powerful women can be.
So, naturally, I spiraled.
What did she want?
Why now?
Was this the moment she finally decided to disown me for my deeply average embroidery?
I was just about to break. To say something clever or stupid or both—when she finally spoke.
"It's almost time."
The worst sentence in the world. Second only to "We need to talk."
"For what?" I asked, pretending not to know.
She looked at me. Calm. Steady. Beautiful in that ruthless way that makes you sit straighter, even when your bones ache.
"For your Brand."
Boom.
Internal collapse.
No survivors.
"The caravan leaves in a week."
She poured her tea. As if she hadn't just dropped a metaphorical guillotine.
"The Cardinal will lead it. You and the others—noble-born, your age—you'll travel with him. Through the Darkwood."
The name alone was enough to make my breakfast retreat up my throat.
She kept talking, elegant and factual. "If the spirits choose you, you'll form a bond. That becomes your Brand. Your mark. Your identity. Who you are in the eyes of the realm."
Yeah. I knew. Everyone knew. It was a whole thing. Songs and scrolls and schoolyard nightmares.
But hearing it from her? From my mother?
Suddenly, it wasn't folklore anymore. It was... calendar-real. Breath-real.
"I know it sounds daunting," she said, and I wanted to scream, DO YOU??
She didn't lie. That was almost worse.
"Not all spirits are benevolent. Not all children return."
Cool.
Great.
Fantastic.
"But don't worry," she added, like this was just another weather report. "The Order is sending trusted guards."
Oh, good. Human meat shields. That'll help when a spirit decides to eat my soul.
"And Eric?" I asked, because of course I did.
She nodded. "He will go with you. It is his year as well."
Of course. Perfect, sword-swinging, emotionally-vacant Eric. He'd probably return with a badass eagle spirit and a trophy wife.
Meanwhile, I'd be out there trying to manifest an aura that didn't scream "talks to flowers and cries in bathrooms."
I nodded. Like an idiot. Like I understood.
Inside, I was unraveling.
One week.
One.
To leave the palace. My bed. My books. My emotional support shawl.
To enter a haunted forest with a bunch of highborn toddlers and hope a ghost liked my vibes.
What if no spirit picked me?
What if they did and it was like... a squirrel?
What if I came back with a Brand that said, "This one cries when people raise their voice"?
What if I didn't come back at all?
I hid my hands in my lap. They were shaking. I wanted to scream. Or nap. Or both. Probably both.
"I understand," I said.
Liar.
"Good," she said. End of conversation.
"You'll prepare. Selina will help. No frivolous items."
Me? Frivolous?
I nearly choked on the irony.
Then: silence again. Thick. Heavy. Final.
She didn't hug me. Didn't say she'd miss me. Didn't even flinch.
Maybe this was noble love.
Maybe this was faith.
Or maybe she just knew.
That I'd survive.
That I'd figure it out.
That whatever the forest gave me, I'd wear it like armor and walk out alive.
I stood. Bowed. Left.
One week.
Just one.
And then?
Everything.
Would.
Change.